Chapter 1 Frankie #2
“What did you cut out?”
Mia waves her hand dismissively and takes her phone from me. “Nothing. My phone was shaking so much because I was laughing, so I cut that part out.” She isn’t looking at me because she’s a terrible liar. “Did you hear how loud everyone was laughing at your impressions? You totally killed.”
“Mia. What did you edit out?”
“It wasn’t bad…” She touches her hand to my knee. “You just looked so sad and dejected. It looked like you were having a private moment, that’s all. Didn’t seem like something that should be on the internet.”
Yeah. That I remember feeling.
I pat her hand. “I think that was the moment I decided to quit doing stand-up.”
“Yeah. But you’re not going to.”
She’s not wrong. Stand-up comedy is the emotionally unavailable Heath Ledger to my gay cowboy Jake Gyllenhaal. I wish I knew how to quit it.
“Where’s my phone?”
Mia gets up and goes over to my dresser to retrieve it for me. “Right here. I plugged it in for you last night.”
I pop the last bit of waffle into my mouth and mumble, “I don’t even know how I’d live without you. Here, you can have my bacon. I don’t think my stomach’s ready for non-carbs yet.”
The first thing I see on my phone screen is a voicemail notification from my mum. She left the message about two hours ago, which would have been seven o’clock in Tampa.
“I got a voice message from Donna,” I tell Mia, imitating my mum’s Australian accent.
“Ooooh, can I hear?!” Mia claps, all excited.
This should be fun because Donna Hogan gets especially Aussie when she’s upset. I play the voicemail and put it on speakerphone.
“Hello, darling. Just got your email. Listen—it’s fucked you got sacked, but let’s not chuck a wobbly, all right?
… Hang on.” She doesn’t pull the phone away from her mouth when she yells at my dad.
Ever. “Peetah! Peetah! Peetah! Turn down the telly. I’m talking to our dawdah!
… No, it’s a message! Just turn it off, will ya?
!… Your dad says hey, and we’re sending a check for a few hundred dollahs to help you out.
Call Uncle Mahtin! I know you’re too proud to ask for help, but that’s what relatives are for.
Especially Mahtin, that little shit. I’m guessing you were on the piss last night, so don’t forget to drink your wohhdah.
Oh, and I thought of a very funny joke story for you—about not being able to find anything to watch on Netflix! Love you.”
“Well, that should be good.” My mum regularly sends me ideas for jokes, and instead of actually writing them as jokes, I just imitate her telling me about her joke ideas in my act.
“What’s ‘on the piss?’” Mia asks, giggling.
“Drinking alcohol.”
“She’s so cute! Are you going to call your uncle Martin?”
“No way.”
“Say hi to him for me if you do…” She’s blushing. God help her.
“I can’t ask him for help. I just can’t.”
I close the app and am about to text my mum to tell her I’m not going to beg her little brother, who just happens to be a big important talent manager, for a job and that I don’t want them to send me money—but I see a notification from Twitter that Owen Brodie just tweeted.
“Oh my God. Owen Brodie tweeted yet another lame joke five minutes ago, and he already has nine hundred likes.”
“He’s so cute…” Mia says, nibbling on a piece of bacon and watching me for a reaction.
“He is not cute! He’s obnoxiously handsome, and he should have stuck to modeling.”
“I love his brother. He’s such a good actor. And gorgeous. But Owen’s funny.”
I scoff at that. “Barely. The guy’s been doing stand-up for as long as I have.
He’s a headliner, he’s done a Netflix comedy special, and he just got some development deal to do a series for a new streaming platform.
For him to star in. Meanwhile, I’m still doing open mics and copywriting for horrible corporations. ”
She sighs. “Well…not anymore. You were fired.”
“I hate the world. I don’t know why it bothers me so much that he’s so successful as a comedian. It just does.”
“I have some ideas as to why it bothers you so much.”
Ignoring her, I reread Owen’s stupid tweet.
Owen Brodie @theowenbrodie
I don’t want to brag or anything, but I’m really popular with my mom.
I mean, it’s cute and random and I can see why people would like it, but…
Frankie Hogan @frankiesayrelax
Replying to @theowenbrodie
I don’t want to brag or anything, but that’s not what yer mom told me last night…
Ahhh, classic response.
Now I feel a little better.
Not my finest work, but… Shit, that doesn’t even make sense.
Who cares—he always ignores me anyway. Asshole.
“You are a tad obsessed with him though.”
“No I’m not.”
“Okay.”
“I’m not.”
“No, I know. But you should probably check your direct messages from last night. Is there a way to delete the ones you sent?”
Whaaaaaaaat?
I open up the DMs in my Twitter app. The most recent conversation is with Owen Brodie.
“Ohhhhhh no no no no no no nooooooo.”
ME: Just my open . Hope you’re happy, head shot.
ME: why I blame you for everything but I do.
ME: Your probably won’t even see these message but whatever. I guess I just want to say that I respect how you handling me in Tampa that time I heckled you.
ME: I mean I was made at you for three years but I’m over it now. I was an asshole but at least you held my attention and made people laugh. I think people most laugh because you hot but whatever. It’s something.
ME: Good luck with your series. It sounds cute. I don’t even mean that sarcastic. Stand-up is hard. Really hard. I give up.
ME: Also I didn’t mean what I say that time about your haircut in that new profile pic. It’s hot. I like how your hair stands up it’s really friendly and it make your blue eyes shinier or somethings
ME: But get over yourself.
“Mia! Why’d you let me do this?”
“It seemed really important to you last night. Also, you growled at me when I told you to stop.”
“How do I delete them?! If I delete them, does that delete it for him too or just on my end?”
“I think it’s just on your side.”
“Wow. Shit. Fuck. Well. Hopefully he won’t even see the messages. I mean, he may have blocked me years ago for all I know. Right?”
She nods enthusiastically. “Hopefully!”
I look back down at my phone, about to close the app, but…a new message has popped up in the conversation. That stupidly handsome, grinning face with the friendly, erect hair follicles and shiny blue eyes is right there, taunting me.
“Oh my God.”
“What?!”
OWEN brODIE: Had a feeling you were the girl from Tampa.
Always wanted to tell you that you were right about everything you said that night.
That material wasn’t funny. But I survived bombing and so will you.
Don’t give up stand-up. You seem funny. Totally unlikable.
But funny. Everyone bombs. Builds character.
Onward and upward (like my hair). Hope you’re feeling okay this morning. Hang in there. ;)
“Oh my God!”
“What?! Did he write back?”
The tingly rollercoaster-drop feeling in my lower abdomen and upper lady bits area has got to be hangover-related and not Owen Brodie-related. But it’s real. And it’s not going away.
“He winky-faced me.”
Mia gasps. “Emoji or emoticon?”
“Emoticon.”
She exhales, relieved. “Good. That’s way hotter.”
“It’s not hot. He was being condescending.”
“Winky-face emoticon is flirty!”
“No it isn’t.”
“It is! He’s divorced, you know. He’s legally single.”
“Of course I know. Being a divorced single dad is all part of his act now. So I’m told.”
“Write him back! Winky-face him back!”
“No way. He’ll think I like him. He is literally the poster boy for everything that is wrong with this business.”
“Okay, then maybe don’t write anything back at all.”
She tries to take the phone from me, but I growl at her.
ME: To be clear--I AM funny, I do NOT think you are hot and I already had character.
“What’d you say? Were you nice?”
“No.”
“Frankie.” She frowns at me.
I huff. “Fine.”
ME: Thank you for acknowledging how correct I was about your awful jokes in Tampa.
I drop my phone like it’s hot. “Shit. I winky-faced him.”
“Emoticon or emoji?”
“Emoji.”
Mia grimaces.
“Now he’s going to think I’m flirting with him.”
“Good!”
“The opposite of good! Shit. I’m still a little drunk, I think.” I delete the Twitter app from my phone. “There. I’m going back to sleep. Thank you for breakfast. I love you.”
“Love you.”
I bury myself under the covers.
I’m never drinking alcohol again.
And I’m never doing stand-up again.
And I’m never going on Twitter again.
And I might never get out of bed again.
But, shit… I have to get a new job.
And I wonder what he meant by that winky-face emoticon.